


Two Books and a Key

by therogueheart



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Break Ins, Can be read as gen, Cute boys, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, Illya Trusts Napoleon, M/M, Napoleon Trusts Illya, Napoleon likes to read, Napoleon's book collection, Our Boys are Soft AF, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Slight Mention of Blood, Soft Boys, Trust, breaking in - Freeform, can be read as platonic, slight mention of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24756559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therogueheart/pseuds/therogueheart
Summary: Illya keeps breaking into Napoleon's apartment.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 19
Kudos: 266





	Two Books and a Key

The scraping-clinking of a lock pick against his $40 Smyths & Barnes doorknob had begun five minutes and thirteen seconds ago. Napoleon had read half a chapter in that time, one eye on his book and one on his wristwatch and both ears on the doorway. 

It had taken Illya longer than expected to figure out where he lived. 

He sighed and slipped his bookmark into place, setting aside _The Whistler in the Dark_ and pushing himself to his feet. He approached the mini bar he'd set up in his admittedly above-needs kitchen, reaching into the cooling chest to pluck out the 1949 bottle of Stolichnaya Elit he'd purchased not long after their initial stint as a team in Rome. It was near icy to the touch and when he twisted the cap it blew a plume of cool steam at him that wisped into the air. He let it breathe as he reached into the freezer drawer with a pair of small tongs, pulling out a long, rectangular cube of ice for each tumbler. He added a generous three finger pour to each glass and brought his own to his lips as he turned, holding out the second to the Russian behind him. 

Illya, to his credit, looked only _moderately_ surprised, gaze flicking up and down Solo like one might appraise a Thoroughbred at an auction before he took the glass, expression pinched. Napoleon leaned back against the counter, crossing one leg over the other and sipping idly as he watched his counterpart bring the liquid cautiously to his lips.

"Is good vodka" the Russian remarked, almost reluctantly. "Russian. Expensive". 

"A good host provides the best experience, tailored to his guests" Napoleon drawled back easily, licking the sharp taste from his teeth. "Although house-guests typically give advance notice". Illya didn't flinch or look sheepish, staring boldly back at Napoleon as he took another pull from his glass. 

"A man does not typically buy $200 vodka for enemy" the spy noted back, bland and blunt. Napoleon tipped his head, fingertip tapping against his glass as he cast the Russian an almost pitying look. 

"Back to that is it, Peril? Enemies? Did you pick that lock to kill me, hm?" 

At that Illya _did_ react. So minutely he might've missed it. A twitch of his fingers, stormy eyes flashing. Napoleon wondered if Illya imagined himself acting on that hot flash of anger, sometimes. If he envisioned pulling out the Winchester .22 at his hip or smashing the vodka tumbler over Napoleon's head. 

"I did not kill you then" Illya refuted, words stubborn like a child denying having done any wrong. Napoleon was taken back, momentarily, to the hotel room. To the veiled darkness in Illya's eyes. Stony, cold. Shuttered. Napoleon had decided even before the call had ended that he wasn't going to kill Illya, but he was not so naive as to think the Russian had felt the same until Napoleon's olive branch. 

"Mm, you didn't. But you _would_ have. A good outcome, regardless. Imagine the cleaning bill if you had" he dismissed, cheery and light as he side-stepped his hulking partner and moved back to the lounge. Illya moved quietly but Solo was acutely aware of the tingle down his spine that came from the Russian following. He always felt hyper-aware of the Russian, attuned to his existence, his presence. 

"KGB sold me. Like cow at market. We work for same man in chair, now". The words were soft, lost and weak with betrayal and they froze Napoleon in his tracks, his skin crawling. The CIA had bartered his service to U.N.C.L.E on the condition he be 'leased back' as and when he was needed. It hadn't been much of a blow to Solo, but he could only begin to _imagine_ what it must be for Illya. Illya, who had only ever known the KGB. The lifestyle. He could also only imagine the price the KGB had demanded for their prized cow. 

He knew words would be useless. Could see it in the way Illya skirted his gaze, finding the viewing window like a lifeline. His jaw twitched as he ground his teeth and his breathing was carefully, perfectly even. Napoleon stared down at his vodka for a moment before he turned, approaching the bookshelf. His fingers danced over the spines lightly, backtracking to _Thy Wicked Imagination_. 

He pulled the book from the shelf and turned, holding it out to the Russian. Illya glanced down, perplexed, taking the book almost by reflex. "What is this?" 

"A book. You know, made of paper, contains words. Though reading of your level is surely mostly pictur-- Ow." Illya's swift grip on his wrist stung, but Napoleon was smiling when their eyes met. There was something there, deep in those ocean-like eyes. Something vulnerable and trusting. Illya's grip relaxed and withdrew, fingertips sliding briefly over where his grip had fallen, like an apology, before he turned the book over in his palms. 

Solo returned to his seat, settling into the rich leather comfortably. He set his vodka aside and traded it for his reading glasses, watching from the corner of his eye as Illya moved cautiously to the other armchair, sinking into it. He sat upright and stiff, book held carefully as though this entire scenario was completely foreign and unnatural to him. Napoleon considered briefly that it _was_. Illya had likely never paused to read purely for pleasure. 

And yet, as time ticked on, Illya relaxed, sinking back in the seat, drawing the book closer as he read. He was silent, focus intense and unwavering on his book. Napoleon smiled to himself, a secret and small thing, and turned his page. 

When Illya eventually rose to leave, Napoleon refused the book back, shaking his head and pushing it gently back into the Russian's hands. "A book should never be left unfinished, Peril. Take it with you. You can bring it back whenever you finish it". And Illya had looked at him; truly looked, before nodding once and striding out of the door. 

Four days later, home from a standard intel run and eager for a moment to relax, Solo approached his bookshelf, skimming thoughtfully over the spines. He passed over a title then paused, returning his gaze to the cracked blue lettering. There, nestled between _Paris' Greatest Artists_ and _The Red District Affair_ , was _Thy Wicked Imagination_. Unbidden, his mouth curved into a warm and surprised smile. 

The second time was equally not what Napoleon would expect from a break in. He was once again sat in his chair, box of chocolates open across his thighs as he devoured another chapter of _The Purpose of Hope_ when the scratch-clunk of his doorknob reached his ears. He lifted his head, focusing on the sound. Of course, it could _not_ be Illya; but then a soft yet enraged utter of Russian filtered through the sound of lock picking and Napoleon shook his head, looking back down at his book. It only took Illya two minutes this time, though the Russian's footsteps were heavier than before as he crossed through the spacious apartment. 

"Did the KGB teach you everything except the concept of knocking?" Napoleon sighed, rolling his head to the left to look up that mile-long body. His breath froze like ice in his lungs when he found Illya's face, however. The Russian's lower lip was split ragged and bloody, purple and black bloomed across his jaw like spilt wine and there was a deep gash at his temple, the blood somewhere between fresh and clotted. 

"Illya" he breathed, shoving side his prior entertainment to stand. Illya's gaze tracked him, steady and fixed, equal parts wary and trusting as Napoleon eyed his wounds, hissing a breath through his teeth. For all they were stood in an open room Illya looked like a trapped animal; coiled and calculated, anticipating an attack. His breathing was sharp and steady, eyes dark. 

"What happened?" He finally remembered to ask, making an aborted reach for Illya's shoulder before he halted himself, placating pointing down the hall towards the bathroom. Illya followed him soundlessly, tense and walking on his toes like at any moment he'd either fight or flee. 

"Former sometimes work partner. Thought I was traitor to KGB". Illya spoke the words heavily, perching neatly on the edge of the bathtub when Napoleon turned on the light and motioned for him to sit. He sat straight, hands on his thighs, watching Napoleon's every move as he opened the medical cabinet for supplies. Napoleon rinsed his hands in saline and grasped the rubbing alcohol, dousing a cotton pad. 

"They attacked you". It was not a question. Illya's gaze was even, dark and sorrowful both when he met Napoleon's eye. 

"I won". 

Solo brandished the cotton pad warningly, then dabbed with measured tenderness at the congealed blood. Knuckle dusters, perhaps. Or a small and ineffectual knife. The crusty blood mingled in the hair at his temple, turning the golden strands ruddy and russet. Illya sat quiet and still like a statue, contained and trusting as Napoleon cleaned him up inch by inch. The wound had bled fiercely but could be taped instead of stitched and the busted lip could be disinfected but could only be left to heal of its own course. 

"You're not a traitor, Peril" Solo murmured as he rinsed his hands clean, catching Illya's gaze in the mirror. He couldn’t make Illya believe the words, but he could still say them. He could still mean them. He dried his hands and motioned for the Russian to follow him, leading the way to the lounge and the chair that Illya had occupied almost two weeks gone. "Sit" he instructed, voice soft and open to refusal. Illya didn’t question or refuse the command, sinking into the seat with the same tense uncertainty the bathtub had received. 

In the kitchen, Napoleon poured a generous sample of whiskey and swallowed it down in one, fingers clenching the edge of the counter. It was some small consolation that Illya had undoubtedly killed the assailant. Some primal, raw knowledge that Illya had come to _him._ He swallowed down the acidic taste of anger, shaking his head as he reached for the kettle pot. His own emotions could wait; _Illya had come to him_. 

It took several moments to think of something to feed the Russian that wouldn't hurt his jaw too much, and Napoleon settled on soup, pairing it with a mug of herbal tea. He balanced an ice pack on his shoulder and carried the loot to the lounge, heart twisting when he found Illya exactly as he'd left him. The Russian looked up at his approach and blinked, hard and surprised, gaze cataloguing his haul. He didn't ask, though, watching as Napoleon set down the tea and soup. 

He held out the pack to Illya, who took it wordlessly, pressing it carefully to his jaw and watching with thinly veiled interest as Napoleon turned to the bookshelf. He chose quickly but carefully, plucking _The Summer Farm_ from its place and making his way back to the former KGB agent. He grasped a plump pillow from the chaise lounge as he passed it and held the book out to Illya, who tilted his head as he took it, gaze vulnerable and questioning. 

"Here" Napoleon offered softly, stepping to the side to place the pillow on the top curve of the chair, propped against Illya's shoulder. He took the ice pack from his grasp and held it in place on the cushion, reaching up slowly, openly to gently guide Illya's head to the side. The Russian followed the guidance, shifting to sit more comfortably, cheek pillowed on the ice. Napoleon allowed himself to selfishly stroke over those golden hairs as he pulled away, retreating back to his own seat. 

Illya was still watching him when he settled, tucking his legs up and flicking through the pages to find the one he'd lost when he'd discarded it carelessly prior. Several long moments passed and then Illya's head tipped and he made for the soup, sipping it from the spoon carefully. Napoleon fought against the smile that threatened to show itself as he found where he'd left off and began to read again. 

He lost time in pretending to read, his mind racing over the event. Illya had been attacked. Illya had come to him for care. Illya, to some extent, _trusted_ him. He looked up over the rim of his book and was surprised to find Illya asleep - Body slumped to one side, head cushioned on the damp patch of the melted ice. It didn't look the most comfortable position in the world, but Illya still looked peaceful, vulnerable. It was the first time the Russian had fallen asleep in front of him. 

"Why here? Why me" he wondered aloud, quiet and pensive. 

"Is safe" came the low, slurred reply and Napoleon blinked, finding rich blues staring back at him. Ah. Not asleep, then. Still, the answer was surprising, and he looked about the apartment. He supposed it was as safe a place as any. Richly armoured with a resident CIA agent. 

"Not apartment" Illya sounded almost amused. " _Cowboy_ is safe". The Russian paused for a moment. "Well. Apartment is safe enough". 

Napoleon's breath caught in his throat, hitching painfully as he looked across at Illya. _He_ was safe? Safe as in Illya trusted him, knew Napoleon would care for him. Perhaps even trusted Napoleon to protect him. Illya _felt_ safe around Napoleon. Three months and Illya trusted Napoleon in a manner that he could have only ever wondered about, before. 

"Stop thinking so hard. I see smoke" Illya murmured softly, and Napoleon looked up with a scoff, but knew his face betrayed the softness and warmth in his heart. After a moment, Illya offered him a small, unsure smile. 

The third time was almost a month after Illya had come to him bloody and beaten. The KGB had apparently sold his control on similar grounds to Napoleon's lease, and the Russian had run a mission in Japan for them for the past week. He was in the kitchen brewing coffee when he heard it, the quiet jiggle of the doorknob, and he grinned to himself, willing away the sudden warmth in his chest as he moved the hot water from the stove and slipped out of the kitchen, making his way to the door. 

When he pulled it open Illya was down on one knee, brows furrowed as he stared at the empty air where the handle had just been, pick wrenched from his grip and still sticking out of the lock. Napoleon smiled down at him, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his ankles as he reached into his pocket. The chain and key were both new, polished and shiny as he dangled it in front of Illya. The Russian looked more startled than Napoleon had ever seen him. 

"This is key". 

"Congratulations on your powers of observation, Peril". 

"What is key for?" 

Napoleon gestured behind him to the expanse of his apartment with a slight eye roll. He'd have thought, perhaps, it might have been obvious. But Illya's brows furrowed and he rose slowly to his towering full height, looming over Napoleon. They were stood close enough that Solo could smell his aftershave and see the flecks of green in his eyes. 

"Key is for _apartment_? Why? Apartment is...Secret place. Valuable to you". 

Napoleon gave an agreeable hum. He'd thought about that endlessly when he'd had the key made. How vulnerable he was making himself to Illya. How much risk he was taking. Illya could bug the apartment or search it for files and information. He could sell out the location to an enemy or just use the key to get in even when Napoleon wasn't there. In all honesty; it had made his head hurt to think of this act. 

"I trust you. And that lock was expensive. I don’t want you scratching it all up with your sub-par picking skills" he breezed, tossing the key at Illya, who snatched it out of the air like a hawk to a fish. 

"You trust me?" 

"Y _ou_ trust _me_ , too" Napoleon pointed out, turning on his heel. His coffee would need a good splash of whiskey to get over this. He might've missed it if not for the fact that even with his back turned to him, his focus was always on Illya. The words were quiet and soft, like the Russian almost didn't want them to be heard. 

"Yes. I do".


End file.
